


The Fourth Book

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Series: Adjacent [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aunts & Uncles, Bookstores, Greg speaks French, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: Greg has the perfect idea for Rosie's birthday present, but he's not the only one.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Adjacent [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1075677
Comments: 23
Kudos: 151





	The Fourth Book

It was a good day.

Greg took a few minutes to walk through the small park, enjoying the energetic chatter in the background as he sipped his coffee. He’d slept well, cleaned his flat and there was a football game going later that afternoon. He was more or less on top of things at work, though he didn’t linger too much on the idea. Didn’t want to jinx anything, not with John’s daughter’s birthday tomorrow. He’d been tickled when John started referring to him as ‘Uncle Greg’.

The sun was warm on his shoulders as he wandered out of the park, heading for the good bookshop on the high street. Waiting to cross the road, Greg idly watched as people ducked through gaps in the traffic, far too close to be safe. A thread of irritation at this casual dismissal of basic personal responsibility usually spiralled tension up his jaw but today it did not. Normally a four year old’s birthday wasn’t something a late forties copper should be excited for, but they were the closest thing Greg had to family, at least in London. His sister and her kids were great, but Switzerland might as well be the moon for how often they saw each other.

It wasn’t the same as last minute mornings at the park while John caught up on sleep, or planned afternoons so John could get a haircut. The few minutes before he and John caught up for a quiet pint; helping to put her to bed and read her stories. Those moments added up, and for Greg they meant he wasn’t just Greg. He was Uncle Greg, and he was going to get her the best damn present any uncle had ever bought a four year old.

And if he knew anything about kids, he knew what made an excellent present.

Entering the bookshop always made him smile. They struck an excellent balance between the best sellers that paid the rent and lesser known authors, and it brought Greg in regularly. Today he smiled at the cashier – her name was Morgan, she always worked Saturday afternoons – before heading for the children’s section. Browsing the store often meant he knew where he was going. He’d actually spotted what he wanted to buy a few weeks ago, but he’d told himself it was too much. As the day approached he changed his mind, and now he felt a rush of adrenalin as he focussed. Children’s fiction. The set he wanted was on the top shelf; seven books, the gold lettering glinting in the store lights.

Greg reached for the first book, and the second. Cradling them in the crook of his left elbow as he reached, Greg balanced the third book as he reached for the fourth. He felt the books shift and glanced down as his fingers closed over not the book spine he expected but someone else’s hand.

“Oh!”

Greg couldn’t help jumping at the contact. He looked up, a quick impression of wide grey eyes meeting his before the books in his elbow begin to slide. Grabbing at them, he looked down, making sure nothing fell to the floor before he raised his eyes back up to find the grey eyes again.

They were waiting for him, wide but less shocked. Indeed, there was amusement there, soft and patient.

“Hi,” Greg managed. _Woah_.

“Good morning,” came the response.

Oh my God. His tone carried the same amusement in his eyes, though the edge of flirt was something extra. And he was posh, and from what Greg’s wandering eyes could discern, well dressed and slim and everything else he usually looked for.

_Hello, indeed._

“We’re both looking for…” Greg tilted his head, trying to read the spine of the book still held by those long, long fingers. Feeling the flirt rise in response, Greg extended one finger, pressing gently so the hand slid down the book and he could read the words picked out in silver lettering against the deep green spine.

“The Silver…” he grinned, pressing again to ease the fingers past the last word, “Chair.”

He’d kept his eyes on the book, but now he turned back to meet the grey eyes. He allowed his gaze to wander a little this time, waiting for a response. Pale skin, hair red enough to turn his mouth dry. He felt his mouth turn up, hot amusement and arousal curling in his belly. His finger was still resting on the book, and it wasn’t until the skin under his forefinger shifted Greg realised the other hand was still in contact with his.

Much as he wanted to return to the book, the grey eyes were holding his and Greg was powerless to look away. It was a challenge, but lacking malice. Instead Greg felt like he was being tested to see if he was prepared to be playful. His breath caught. His attention was torn between the eyes holding his, assessing his reaction every second. They were arresting, and it was only the movement of the hand on the book that stopped him falling in deeper.

There was no way he could refuse.

The hand was shifting. Turning over until Greg’s finger traced across the palm. Around the curve of the thumb. Over the knuckles. And finally, without so much as twitch of an eyebrow, the hand slid away, breaking the contact.

“And what do you propose we do now?”

The words were soft, silky, suggesting far more than the simply question strictly asked. Greg felt them wind around him, continuing the light touch the man’s hand had so recently abandoned. He flexed his hand, dropping it to his side.

_Abandoned. I want more._

“About what?” Greg asked.

“The book,” the man said. He picked it up, holding it between them. “We are both intent on purchasing this book, and yet there is only one copy.”

Greg hummed, almost breathless as the light banter barely skated over the deeper meaning swirling in the air. “It’s a puzzle,” he agreed. “What do you propose?”

He deliberately echoed the same phrase, and the smirk that slowly spread made it clear his homage was noted.

“I have…ideas,” the man said, and the delicacy with which he shaped the last word sent a long, slow shiver down Greg’s back. “A challenge, perhaps.”

“I’m listening,” Greg replied, allowing a matching smile to cross his face.

The eyes darkened, more charcoal than silver; the colour was like smoke. All the shades of grey together, examining Greg’s reaction. Pleased, from what he could see.

“My ideas are more visual in nature.”

Greg grinned. “Okay,” he said. “I’m guessing we shouldn’t do this in a bookshop.”

“Probably not the best choice,” came the response. “Might I suggest your home? Mine comes with complications.”

“Sure,” Greg managed. He held up the books he was holding. “Should we buy these first?”

“Certainly. I believe the clerk will hold the item under dispute until one of us comes to claim it,” the other man said with a smile.

They walked together to the front desk, neither speaking again. Morgan was happy to hold The Silver Chair, of course. It wasn’t until they walked outside Greg realised they hadn’t introduced themselves.

_Anonymous._

+++

The key always stuck in his lock, and Greg usually didn’t mind. Today he was self-conscious. Jittery, his nerves strung tighter by the arousal still swirling around in his belly.

He took a deep breath and tried the key again, wiggling hard until the lock gave.

When the door closed behind them, the silence was absolute.

“Quiet,” the other man commented.

“The one good thing about this block,” Greg murmured, dropping his keys in the bowl. “Old building, thick walls.”

“I will keep that in mind.” The redhead raised one eyebrow. “To be clear, I was not suggesting we play poker for rights to that book.”

“Don’t know that I’d bet against your poker face,” Greg said. “And no, I was not expecting poker.” Stepping closer, Greg took the shopping bag, placing it with his own on the floor by the hall table. “Can I make you more comfortable?”

The smile that met his sparked the arousal into deeper waves through his abdomen. Greg reached out, easing the coat off. Shoulders lifted, helping him, the smile that met his own told Greg this was exactly what they’d both been expecting. His heart was pounding harder as he turned, hanging both their coats behind the door.

When he turned back, the stormy eyes were waiting for him.

“I don’t know your name,” he said quietly.

“And I don’t know yours,” came the calm reply. “Do you need a name?”

“It helps,” Greg admitted.

The tilted head was assessing again. “You can call me Alexander,” he said.

“It’s not your real name,” Greg said with a smile.

“It is not,” he said. “But it will suffice, will it not?”

“It will,” Greg replied. “Do you want my name?”

“If you chose to give me a name,” Alexander replied, “I will accept it, of course.”

“Really,” Greg said. He thought for a second, running his tongue over his teeth as he thought. “I had the impression you were more of a giver.”

The reply obviously surprised Alexander, but the flare of heat in his eyes made it clear he appreciated it.

“I am,” he said, “although given the circumstances, I believe we will be able to come to some agreement, should receiving not be your preference.”

“Oh, that’s fine with me,” Greg said, blood pounding in his veins. His trousers were far too tight; there was no way they were misunderstanding each other now. “I can be very accommodating.”

“Excellent,” Alexander murmured.

“Maybe you could show me your ideas?” Greg asked. “Or can I make you more comfortable first?”

He ran his fingers down Alexander’s arms, sparks under his fingertips when they touched skin. Soft skin. Skin he knew was pale, though it was too dark to really see here; his flat was pretty small, and they were standing in the hall. Greg heard and felt the reaction instead.

The sharply indrawn breath. The tightened muscles of the forearms.

“Why yes, that would be very kind.” The smooth voice was deeper now, and Greg felt the wrists beneath his fingers turn upwards. His fingers caught on something, and he understood.

Cufflinks.

Greg swallowed. This was going to be an experience indeed.

+++

When he awoke, the Sunday sun was already working its way through his window. Greg stretched, wincing before he remembered exactly why he was so sore in so many places. A smile broke over his face, and when he found the other side of the bed empty, it wasn’t surprising. The disappointment wasn’t unexpected either, though it was stronger than he anticipated. Alexander – or whatever his name was – had left without saying goodbye. Greg probably would have done the same thing, in the same situation. He pulled himself up, looking over at the bedside table and smiled. A note, standing up waiting for him, the script exactly as elegant as he would expect.

_While I’m sure you would object, I will assure you The Silver Chair is yours to claim._

The grin widened. Of course Greg would have objected, had there been someone to hear his words. He wondered where Alexander would find another copy. And the same edition, to match the ones he’d already bought.

With the birthday party in his mind, Greg glanced at his watch. He’d missed the football yesterday – time had stood still once he and Alexander had closed the door behind themselves in his flat. As it was, Greg would have to get moving right now if he was going to have time to swing by the bookshop again to claim his prize on the way to the birthday party.

+++

“Uncle Greg!” Rosie squealed when he arrived. Greg deliberately arrived a few minutes early, hoping to steal a bit of Rosie’s attention before all her friends arrived. He caught her as she launched herself at him, a confection of pink and purple tulle skirts and sparkly headband, and they ended up in a pile on the wooden floor.

“Happy birthday!” he said, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “Thanks for inviting me.”

The look she gave him bore the exasperation of a much older human, and Greg had a glimpse into the future. She was going to be an incredible woman, he thought for the hundredth time.

“Uncle Greg. You’re _family_ ,” she said dramatically. “You have to be here.” Her weary face brightened. “You’re half of all my uncles!”

“Half?” Greg said. He looked up at John. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I don’t,” John said, grinning as Rosie ripped into the present Greg handed her. “Sherlock does, though.”

“Oh,” Greg said, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“He doesn’t talk about it much,” John agreed. “Mycroft’s actually very good with Rosie.”

“{Uncle My talks to me in French,}” Rosie said in French, not looking away from her present.

“Holy shit,” Greg mouthed at John before answering Rosie’s French with his own. “{That’s a very clever uncle you have then, isn’t it?}”

“{Uncle Greg!}” Rosie gasped, her mouth hanging open. “{You speak French!}”

“{Of course,}” he replied, though switched back to English for John’s benefit. “All the best uncles do.”

“What books are these?” Rosie asked, holding them up to Greg. “Thank you,” she added at a faux stern look from John.

“These are the first four books of my favourite series,” Greg said. “My grandfather gave them to me when I was about your age.”

“The first four?” Rosie said. “There are more? Why didn’t you buy them all?”

“Rosie!” John admonished her, turning apologetic eyes to Greg.

“The others were claimed by someone else,” Greg told her, waving off John’s apology. “He was scoundrel, sugar. I had to fight him off even to get these for you.”

“Were you very brave?” Rosie asked, eyes wide.

“Of course,” Greg said. “But he was gone before I could challenge him to a duel for the rest of the series. Don’t worry, by the time we get to the end of these it’ll be Christmas, and I can give you the rest of the series.”

“But Uncle Greg!” Rosie said, her lower lip quivering. She clutched the books to her chest. “What if I finish them early?”

“Good afternoon,” a voice came from behind them. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Greg froze. He helped Rosie as she scrambled up and over him, almost tripping over her skirts as she squealed, “Uncle My!”

“{My dear Rosie,}” came the response, and even in another language, Greg recognised the voice.

Slowly, Greg stood up, wincing as his knees protested. He turned around, bracing for the incredible coincidence he now knew was standing behind him.

“Hi,” he said carefully.

The grey eyes were familiar, but as they met his over Rosie’s excited head, Greg wondered what he saw there.

Surprise, certainly, but there was more, and he didn’t know this man well enough to read it.

“Greg, this is Sherlock’s brother,” John said.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the redhead supplied.

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg replied.

“DI Lestrade,” Mycroft murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Greg said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft started, and anything more he intended to say was lost in Rosie’s delighted squeal.

“More books!” she exclaimed. “They look the same as the ones from Uncle Greg!”

“Well that is because they are,” Mycroft told her.

“You’re the one Uncle Greg had to fight for my books!” Rosie exclaimed.

“I suppose so,” Mycroft replied. “Aren’t you lucky we were both buying for the same three year old?”

“Uncle My!” Rosie shrieked, “I’m not three anymore! I’m four!”

“My mistake,” Mycroft murmured, but the little girl was gone almost before he’d spoken, rushing to meet another equally excited small child as they arrived.

“We should pick these up,” Greg said, motioning to the discarded books. “At least we know she likes them.”

“Sorry,” John said, flashing them a smile as he passed. “Too excited.”

“No such thing at your own birthday party,” Greg replied.

Mycroft had picked up the books he’d given Rosie and looked at Greg. “Shall we place these on her bookshelf?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. His heart was beating too fast as they walked up the stairs to Rosie’s bedroom. Was Mycroft trying to engineer a chance to talk alone?

When they arrived, the room seemed far too small for them both. The bed was tiny, as always, but with another grown man in the room – someone Greg was intensely aware of – the walls shrank in, too.

“Over here?” Greg asked, pointing to a stretch of empty shelf. “I think John anticipated new books today.”

“Unsurprising,” Mycroft murmured. “Given her fascination with language.”

“{I’m surprised you didn’t order a French language edition,}” Greg replied.

Mycroft looked over with surprise. “{I prefer to read in the original language,}” he said. “{Translation changes the nuance of meaning.}”

Greg nodded. He reached over, settling his books on the shelf in order, leaving space for Mycroft’s books. He watched the bookshelf as each book joined his, their covers nestling close. When all seven were sitting together, the room settled into silence. The sounds of the party below drifted up; Greg winced at a particularly loud shriek.

“She’s having a good time,” Greg murmured.

“She is,” Mycroft replied.

“So if I gave her four books,” Greg said, reaching out to touch the spines, “and you gave her three, does that make me the favourite uncle?”

Mycroft’s huff might have been amusement or disbelief; Greg couldn’t tell, his eyes still on the books. His index finger lingered on the middle book.

_The Silver Chair._

_We’re back at the books again._

Greg didn’t speak, wondering what Mycroft was thinking. He was wondering what _he_ was thinking; his mind was a swirl of questions and possibilities.

“Favourite is subjective,” Mycroft said. “Though I’m assured speaking French is…advantageous.”

“{Lucky for me I do,}” Greg replied. He smiled, still looking at the books. “I guess that means it comes down to the book again.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, Greg’s heart skipping at the tentative offer in his words, “the epic battle for dominance might be a more ongoing project.”

“Maybe,” Greg said. He finally turned to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Maybe we’ll have to meet somewhere in the middle again.”


End file.
